


Life Is About To Get Real Weird

by Scarlet_Nin



Series: You, brother mine, have your death privileges revoked! [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Heart-to-Heart, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentioned Number Five | The Boy, Soft Luther Hargreeves, Survivor Guilt, Vanya Hargreeves Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Nin/pseuds/Scarlet_Nin
Summary: There’s no joy, no relief in his Father’s gaze at seeing him alive, nothing more than the barest flash of interest before his gaze slides away towards the limp figure hanging in Mother’s arms.Instead of the bitter thang of jealousy, fear clogs up Ben’s throat. The movement under his shirt visible for all to see as they tense, restless at the threat to—To what, exactly?The Horror falls silent.“Very well then, Number Six.” Dad turns away. “You may follow along.”In the following time of his resurrection that Klaus sleeps away, Ben gets the chance to give two of his siblings the closure they need.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves
Series: You, brother mine, have your death privileges revoked! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869802
Comments: 57
Kudos: 331





	Life Is About To Get Real Weird

**Author's Note:**

> Who would've thought that I could actually come up with a plot! Shocking, I know. I've already got ideas for a third part. That's gonna involve the consequences of essentially cheating death in front of Reginald Hargreeves no less and dysfunctional sibling love.

There was something deeply unsettling about being torn and stuffed back into your body, the invisible push to fit into a mold that grew cold where it used to be warm, that squeezed him into a pair of shoes he outgrew in the short span he used to be dead.

Dead. He used to be _dead_.

The thought leaves him numb in a way the blood sticking to him after missions would. Drying over his clothes, cooling rapidly to the point it became a second skin he had to chip away, another armor that no longer fit and he had to shed.

The Horror always treated the blood covering them like a security blanket. Relished in the smell, slithering in his stomach with excitement, vibrating close to a purr of pleasure at the sight of red spilling over the floor, staining and marking him as a monster.

Yet, the moment Ben surged out of his coffin, they made him throw up.

Through shuddering breathes, he retched, hands braced onto his knees that wouldn’t stop shaking as they shivered, angrily slamming themselves into the snow-covered ground. The smell was too overwhelming, lungs unused to taking in fresh air again, too much crimson on white for either of them to stomach, considering who’s blood it was.

_(There was so much red. It pooled around his brother’s legs, forming a steady puddle melting away the snow. As far as the eye can see, it was everywhere. On his clothes, the snow, the tombstone, on his hands—Ben could feel it. Sticky and wet as he tried to shake his brother awake, could feel it seep into his jeans, soaking the fabric through as he knelt by Klaus’ side, reaching out to press his fingers over the cuts, to stop the seemingly endless flow of red, red, red—)_

His gut twists, coiled tightly with horror.

They recoiled into his stomach and the irony of them feeling anything other than rage made Ben unfreeze, muscles pulling strangely, tingling all over as he fought to steady himself and to not fall backwards into a bed made for the dead.

The panic over waking up in the dark without air to breathe subsided, leaving him swaying in an attempt to balance himself after he’s felt his flesh knit itself together, heart beginning to pump fresh blood into his veins. The wounds he sustained in the moments of his death nothing more than a deep, icy ache in his bones that burnt for warmth.

The ringing in his ears grows quieter as the screaming fades.

“Oh my God,” a familiar voice says, “Oh god, Ben, you’re—guys, look!”

Allison.

Her voice drills itself past the fog in his mind to clear the haze from his eyes. She sounds odd to his ears. A frequency wobbling on the static background, tuning in and out. Climbing out of the casket, he takes a slow, steady step forward, hands reaching out to thin air.

Where had the hand holding onto his own gone to? His palm is cold, shaky without the support of another’s warmth.

A rumble of noise erupts from his stomach, forcing itself upward through the back of his throat. His mouth is too dry to form the words, the unspoken question lingering in the air, silencing the restless stutter of his siblings.

“Speak, boy.”

Fury flushes his skin, easily mistaken for the cold or embarrassment. Ben raises his head and sees past the mirage he’s fooled himself into seeing. The rose-tinted glasses spiderweb cracking once, twice, before breaking into too many shards to glue back together. The Horror hisses under his skin, growling like they thirst for blood and Ben has the half-lucid desire to let them loose to squeeze the life out of a man, who hadn’t shed a tear when Ben gave him his own.

No more.

Wetting his chapped lips, Ben croaks out a single syllable, “Four.”

The number of Death.

Dad won’t even turn to look at him properly. There’s no warmth in his eyes, behind that monocle staring back at him and it’s laughable in a way that people inevitably end up crying, to see a stranger wearing Dad’s skin looking back at him.

_(“Monster,” his brother whispers late into the night. They weren’t supposed to leave their bedrooms, another rule broken, though Four never liked to abide by the rules._

_Six makes a startled noise in the back of his throat. His tears have run out half an hour ago and he clings to the boney frame of his brother as they huddle underneath his blanket in the dark and pretends the hollow edge to Four’s voice doesn’t bother him._

_He pretends a lot of things aren’t bothering him lately, the list only ever growing._

_“I don’t understand how they can call you a monster when the only monster I see is the one we’re living under. Fucking bogeyman.”_

_The hand running through his hair doesn’t stop, though Four falls silent after, breath shallow, smelling faintly of whiskey—a warm puff of air against the shell of Six’s ear. There’s a story behind the accusation, full of resentment and a resigned fear that it’ll never be told._

_But it’s not a fitting bedtime story. One where every line is written with ink rather than blood and tears. There’s enough horror in Six’s life, he doesn’t need to add another ghost story upon his conscience and so, he doesn’t ask._

_The next morning, he wakes up to an empty bed, to Mom’s voice outside of his door telling him to get ready and when he passes by his brother’s room, there are fresh writings lining the wall, crawling nearly all the way up to the ceiling._

_For a fleeting moment, he wishes he’d asked.)_

A curse and a blessing, Klaus’ on-brand gift was to see what others couldn’t, whenever he liked what he saw or not. There was no escape under death’s critical eyes, no mask to hide behind.

Not that Dad bothers. There’s no need to cover up something that doesn’t even exists.

There’s no joy, no relief in his Father’s gaze at seeing him alive, nothing more than the barest flash of interest before his gaze slides away towards the limp figure hanging in Mother’s arms.

Instead of the bitter thang of jealousy, fear clogs up Ben’s throat. The movement under his shirt visible for all to see as they tense, restless at the threat to—

To what, exactly?

The Horror falls silent.

“Very well then, Number Six.” Dad turns away. “You may follow along.”

 _What an asshole._ The thought shots through his head, disappearing as quick as it came, without any of the guilt normally weighting him down.

It’s true after all.

Each step sends a sharp spike of pain through his body. Ben doesn’t stop striding across the snow with slouched shoulders, grunting with effort until his fingers can wrap around a limp wrist.

Only then, does he slow down, when the hand that pulled him back towards the light is safely in his own.

  


* * *

  


The first person Mom checks over isn’t Klaus.

It’s Ben.

He tries to protest, to steer her soft touches away from him towards his brother, who lays silent and unmoving on the infirmary bed, dead to the world. Literally, if it wasn’t for the miniature fall and rise of his chest, the faint pulse beating beneath Ben’s fingers that spoke to the contrary.

“Now, now, Ben,” Mom tuts, gently and her hands are warm on his cheeks as she cradles his face. “Let me look after you, alright dear? Your brother looks like he needs a wink of sleep, poor boy hasn’t been sleeping well in your absence. Neither have the rest of your brothers and sisters. We all missed you terribly.” She presses a kiss to his forehead.

 _Except Dad,_ he thinks with a healthy dose of spite. He leans into her touch, weak for the affection.

Mom takes it as permission, hands systematically flying across his skin to check for wounds. Aside from scars, there’s nothing physically wrong with him, she tells him, though it doesn’t hurt to check, she lectures. Electrodes get tapped to his temples, a heart monitor checks his heartrate—a bit too high for Mom’s tastes—and he endures her fussing without complaint, fingers curled around his brother’s wrist as he sits on the bed.

She presses three pieces of gum drops into his hands for his low blood sugar, before she starts asking questions.

“Does anything hurt, honey?”

Everything aches, stiff with a chill he can’t shake despite the jacket he’s wearing and the heat from the heater warming up the room. There’s nothing Mom can do about that, so he shakes his head.

“Are you sure?”

Ben nods, eating the drops to stall on answering verbally for a little while longer. His tongue is sore, an odd feeling he hasn’t grown accustomed to yet. The drops dissolve on his tongue, flavorless.

“Alright, then.” She begins to take off the electrodes, patting him gently on the cheek. “That’ll be all for now. It’s good to have you back, sweetie, make sure you don’t overtax yourself for a few days, just to be sure you’ll be in good health from now on.”

Then, she turns to Klaus.

Ben watches her, clinging to the hand in his grip. Mom keeps up the soft chatter, filling him in on what’s she’s doing for once without being prompted to when she notices him staring.

“He’ll be fine, dear,” She says, cheerfully. “Though, he’ll have to stay here for a few days. He lost a lot of blood and fluids, so we’ll give him a transfusion as soon as I can get a hold of one of your brothers or sisters. A few healthy meals and he’ll be up and running in a jiffy, you’ll see. For now, I’m going to run him a bath to wash off all the blood and get him into a fresh set of clothes.”

Mom picks up Klaus or tries to.

“You’ll need to let go for a moment, sweetheart.”

The lump in his throat swells up, his skin itching and flushing with heat as his fingers tighten for a brief moment, the rush of panic threatening to wash the rational thoughts away like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t let go. Can’t bring himself to pry his fingers off without nausea inspired sweat breaking out across his skin.

Mom’s smile turns dimmer, something resembling sadness clouding her eyes.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt him. I’m just going to wash off all that yukky blood on him, so he’s not going to hurt himself trying to give himself a bath after waking up. He’ll feel better in a set of fresh clothes and I’ll bring you a new set to change into too. Just close your eyes and count to hundred and we’ll be back before you know it.”

Right. Mom won’t hurt any of them. Ben knows she can’t.

But—

Mom adjusts her grip on Klaus, holding out her pinky finger as she hoists him up a little higher, giving Ben an encouraging smile. “Do you want me to pinky swear it to you?”

The tense muscles in his body uncoil like a stretched rubber band going lax. It’s such a Klaus thing to teach Mom, who for all her programming about raising children doesn’t know every trick in the book, such a childish gesture, but she must have filed it away under resorts to comfort them.

Letting go, Ben slowly reaches out and loops his finger around Mom’s, holding on for a moment longer than a boy his age should.

He can’t bring himself to care.

“Alright, then.” Mom pulls back. “Remember, we’ll just be across the hall. If you need anything call for me and I’ll come and check up on you.”

She straightens up, turning away from him to head for the bathroom across the hall.

Ben’s free hand flings out to grip the back of her blouse.

“Something amiss, dear?”

“Can I…can I join you, Mom?”

She blinks in surprise, glancing between him and Klaus. Her smile widens, growing softer around the edges as he starts to fidget.

“We can save some water.”

She gestures for him to follow along. Ben hurries to keep up with her purposeful, quick strides, settling into the bath after undressing himself.

None of them have bathed together before, neither did they want to. Each of them enjoyed their downtime while showering off the sweat from training and missions, no one more so than Klaus, who’d take forever to soak in the water, much to Allison’s chagrin.

Once, Luther helped him wash out the blood in his hair after a particular gruesome mission. His hands felt so warm, rubbing soothingly through his blood-crusted strands, letting him cry without scolding him for his show of tears like Dad might’ve done. Had wanted him to.

This time it’s Ben, who runs his fingers through Klaus’ knotted hair, gently scrubbing the blood away with the shampoo Mom squeezes into his hands. The smell is nice, flowery and sweet on his nose as bubbles form under his shaky hands while Mom fights to regulate their temperatures and to wash all the blood away. The water is turning a rusty brown by the time they finish and not once during the bath did his brother stir.

But he’s alive, not half-slumped over in a puddle of his own blood. Therefore, Ben can’t find a reason to complain.

He changes into another pajama set, turning around while Mom changes Klaus before they paddle back into the room. Grateful that the infirmary beds were larger than their normal ones, he sits down against the headboard, pillow behind his back, next to his brother while Mom rearranges Klaus to lie on his back, tucked in at all sides except for his arms, which rest over the covers, sleeves pulled upwards to his elbows.

Two faint pink lines run up his arms.

Ben pointedly doesn’t look at them.

Mom busies herself with hooking his brother up to an IV, placing a heating pack against his neck, offering one to him which he declines.

Scuffling can be heard coming down the hall, the distant sound of cursing. Diego slides into the view, frantically catching himself on the doorframe as Luther barrels into him, gliding across the floor less smoothly. Simultaneously, they try to walk through the door, elbowing each other and hissing under their breaths for the other to move.

Someone behind them shoves them forward, a feminine voice sternly shouting “Move your asses!” as they trip over their feet, trying to use each other for support. They crash to the floor and Allison stands in the doorway, daintily stepping over them to get into the room. She halts a few feet away from the bed, barely two steps from the door.

“Ben…” she whispers into the room, eyes wet.

Vanya lingers outside the door, sniffling, hair mused like she had no time to brush her mousy brown strands after changing clothes. Knowing her, the thought of her appearance never crossed her mind.

“Now, dears, don’t be so rowdy.” Mom claps her hands, effectively catching their attention. “This is the infirmary wing after all. We wouldn’t want to accidently wake your brother up, now do we?”

A chorus of apologies ring out as Luther and Diego pick themselves off the floor.

“Is he going to be okay?” Allison asks, walking over to the bed on Ben’s side. She lays a hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles with her thumb as she looks down at Klaus’ sleeping form with tender eyes.

“He’ll be better when he gets a bit of blood back into him,” Mom reassures her. “So? Which one of you would be willing to help me out?”

At once, five voices speak up, each of them pulling back their sleeves to offer their arms. Allison is quick to squeeze Ben’s shoulder in warning, shaking her head.

Luther blocks Diego’s way with an arm. “You’re scared of needles, let me do it.”

Diego bristles, slapping the hand away. “Shut up! He’s my brother, I don’t care about the damned n-n-needles! I just won’t look at th-them and I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll do it,” Vanya says, quickly. “Take as much as he needs.”

“Don’t be stubborn Diego, just let me—”

“No! Don’t pull your rank bullshit—”

“Guys, please, he needs help. Now’s not the time—”

Allison’s hand slips down from Ben’s shoulder as she uses them to cup her mouth.

“I heard a rumor that you stopped arguing and let me donate my blood!”

Three mouths click shut and Allison huffs out a heavy breath, stalking around the bed to roll back her sleeve. She ignores the dirty look from Diego and Vanya’s frown, holding still as Mom inserts the needle.

Slowly, the rest of their siblings approach the bed, forming a semi-circle around the bed on Ben’s side. Vanya hesitates for a shuddering breath before she wraps her arms around Ben’s shoulders, standing while he sits and buries her nose into his hair.

“Thank God,” she whispers. “I missed you so, so much, Ben.”

Luther’s arms come up to wrap one arm around Vanya, tugging Diego into the embrace as he squeezes them, saying “Me too.” In the smallest voice they’d heard.

Ben leans into them, twisting around to hold them, wishing for once he had as many arms as The Horror, so that he could hug each of them without having to move. He closes his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, melting into the warmth they offer.

His exhaustion creeps up on him, pulling him into slumber soon afterwards.

  


* * *

  


Klaus won’t wake up.

He doesn’t move, barely breathes loud enough to hear and every minute his chest rises a tic too late, Ben has the urge to lean down to feel the warmth of his exhales against the shell of his ear, to lay his head down against his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

Allison, Diego, Luther and Vanya come and go.

There’s a system in place, he thinks. One they came up with in the short span Dad allowed them a bit of free time. Vanya is the most regular visitor, staying until Ben either dozes off or Mom tells her she needs to get ready for one thing or another. She always asks if she’s allowed to sit on the bed with them after Luther shoved them together as close as they could get while Ben slept in his own. She doesn’t talk, waiting for him to speak and her company makes the suffocating silence more bearable.

Allison sneaks into the room after convincing Pogo, she doesn’t need an extra lesson in French, falling back on her rumors to have her way. She brings a bottle of nail polish with her and a book for Ben, sitting down on the foot of the bed with her shoes kicked off. Her hands tremble while she does Klaus’ nails, chattering to fill the silence. Asking him about his book, about her choice of colors and if he wants to learn how to do them. She jokes, saying it won’t matter if he messes up Klaus’ other hand since they can redo them again until he wakes up.

It’s nice. Her faith that their brother will wake up. Like any other outcome didn’t even cross her mind. Despite the fact that her rumors urging Klaus to wake up fall on deaf ears every time she tries.

Diego visits with Mom, using her as an excuse. He’s heard him arguing he wants to learn more about first aid despite Mom’s objections that his fear of needles might get in the way. His brother watches Mom change the IV bags, throws an extra blanket over Ben and regularly opens a small window to let in a bit of fresh air before he drags a chair over to their bedside, fingers interlocking with Klaus’ while he asks Ben if there’s anything he needs. Eager to be of use and content to watch over them. When Mom tries to get him to leave, he pulls a face, trying to weasel out a few more minutes and promising to come back as soon as possible.

Luther stays the shortest, but he visits more often. At least three times a day. In the morning, during lunch and before curfew. He carries the tray of food Mom brings along, sneaking glances at Ben, never meeting his gaze. He lingers like a shadow, shy out of reach, hovering with heavy shoulders straining to carry invisible weight.

All four of them never fail to check Klaus’ pulse before they leave. Vanya lays her ear onto Klaus’ chest to listen for his heartbeat, Allison whispers “I heard a rumor that you woke up” into his ear, waiting for a response with her ear close to his lips, feeling the puff of warm air. Diego holds his wrist to check his pulse and Luther presses two fingers to his throat.

Dad has yet to show up.

Ben’s not sure he wants him to.

  


* * *

  


“I’m sorry.”

There’s no way to describe how Luther’s voice wavers, drifting across the room from where he stands lingering the doorway. Maybe, if Ben were to raise his head and look up, he’d see what prompted the sudden outburst in his brother’s eyes. People can hide beneath masks.

The eyes, Ben read a lifetime ago, are the window to the soul.

Too bad Klaus won’t open them, laying still and unmoving in his bed, hooked up to IV’s and a heart monitor, the gentle humming keeping the silence away that none of them thought could be achieved around their loudest brother.

It’s eerie. Watching someone’s chest rise and fall in a rhythm. Counting the seconds between the exhales of breathes, how many beats their pulse can manage in a minute. Especially, someone like Klaus.

Ben can’t recall a time his brother slept so soundly. Without fidgeting or mumbling, face scrunching up and shuffling away from invisible touches. Not even the drugs could keep the nightmares away. The unpleasant memories. Just the ghosts.

Tightening his grip around the hand in his grasp, Ben expects to hear the door fall shut. A soft clicking noise to signal the end of Luther’s visit.

He’s not the first to apologize. Diego beat him for once, stuttering over the word, over and over and over again, eyes suspiciously shiny.

But Luther doesn’t leave.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” he says, quietly, voice thick with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

_(“—no, no, no,” One says, falling to his knees, cradling their brother in his arms. Ben watches, chest heaving with sobs, stuck as a silent observer, how Luther’s hands turn red under the flow of blood coating Klaus’ arms. “Not you too. Please, Four, you have to wake up.”_

_No amount of shaking gets a rise out of their brother._

_“I can’t lose you too. Please, Klaus, wake up! I promise, I won’t get mad.”_

_Luther’s hands tremble, hovering, unsure what to do. He begins to rock back and forth, face gone pale as the snow surrounding them, one hand stroking across Klaus cheeks, mop of curls tucked underneath his chin._

_“I’m sorry—” Tremors run up and down Luther’s spine, wet hitched gasps breaking apart his voice. “—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”)_

Wordlessly, Ben waves him over, swallowing the memory back down. Quiet, hesitant footsteps he’d associate with Vanya, come closer and it’s not until Luther is sitting in the stiff chair next to the bed Klaus is in, that Ben lifts his head to meet his gaze.

Luther looks horrible. Exhausted. Guilty.

He’s holding himself strung high, gripping his upper arms tightly and his shoulders are hunched upwards, bracing himself for a hit. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot like he’s spent the night crying instead of sleeping and he doesn’t look up from his lap, hiding behind the messy fringe falling across his eyes.

Ben’s stomach twists at the sight.

“No,” he mumbles, seeing Luther flinch.

Wide eyes snap up to look at him. “What?” his brother asks, voice small and uncertain.

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

The question takes Luther by surprise. Mouth opening and closing, seemingly dumbfounded.

“Ben—” Luther takes a deep breath, knuckles going white as he leans forward. He’s going to give himself bruises at this rate. “—It’s my fault that you…I…I let you _die_.”

Ben shakes his head.

“It’s my fault that you didn’t make it out alive of that mission.”

No.

“If I hadn’t forced you to bring them out, then you wouldn’t have died. It was my call that k-killed you—my plan. My failure to listen and pay attention to the signs.”

Stop. Ben can’t listen to this—it’s _wrong_. Sickening.

“I killed you,” Luther whispers, jaw clenching. “I pushed you to do something you didn’t want to do. It was _me_ that made you think it was necessary to bring them out and I let you. I didn’t stop you when I should’ve—"

A sob breaks out of Ben’s throat, a broken sound of grief. Luther’s mouth snaps shut as his face crumbles, tears sliding down his cheeks and all Ben can do is squeeze his eyes shut, curling into himself on his bed.

“I should’ve done better,” his brother says, ashamed. “With both of you. I’m sorry—”

“It was me.”

There’s a small pause of silence before Luther asks, “What?”

Ben cracks his eyes open. “He did it for me,” he breathes out, watching Luther’s confused frown turn into horrified realization, his eyes flickering from Klaus’ sleeping face to Ben’s.

At the torn twist to Luther’s lips the words bubble up in Ben’s throat, spilling out like vomit. Bitter and acid on his tongue with the need to air out what has been on his mind since the day he took his first breathe again in the hope of loosening the tight knot in his stomach and throat that tightens with each day that passes. Each hour his brother won’t wake up.

The Horror always hurt him a little less after he let them out.

With luck, spilling his guts will do the same for his conscience.

“He…he wouldn’t listen to me afterwards, after he made up his mind,” he sucks in a shaky breath, wiping at his eyes. “You know how he is. Klaus is always so stubborn—” Luther offers a jerky nod. “—and…and it’s not like I wanted him to go through with it, I _didn’t_. I swear I didn’t, I tried to stop him, but I _couldn’t_.”

Apprehensive green eyes dismissing him, hands shoved into pockets to hide their trembling from sight. Powerless, he had been, in the face of Klaus’ persistence to prove himself. Nothing more than a glaring motivator.

He’d shouted and screamed like the ghosts he saw wandering around the house when his brother’s chest stopped rising after falling still. Cursed his name, sticking his hands through rapidly cooling flesh in the childish hope of stopping the bleeding.

It felt like dying all over again.

Sitting there, waiting in the snow and blood he couldn’t feel, for his brother’s ghost to show up, there was a moment he hated Klaus for making him an unwilling accomplice in his suicide, for killing him twice when all he’d wanted was to live.

Most of all, Ben hated himself.

Because some part of him had been glad, knees ready to buckle in relief and sink into the warmth of Klaus’ arms when they pulled him close.

“I have to live with that.” How, he doesn’t know, neither does Luther judging from the miserable sympathy written over his face. “Don’t do this to yourself. My death,” he stumbles over the word, pushing on, “—wasn’t your fault, Luther, it was an accident.”

His brother looks ready to disagree. “But—”

“No,” Ben says, firmly, eyes wet. “I heard what Dad told you guys. Kinda. Everything was hazy, muted like you were speaking underwater until Klaus pulled me out, but what he said? That wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _true_.”

There’s a faint quivering to Luther’s lips that urges him to speak his mind and so, Ben continues, consequences be damned.

“You’re not the one that sends me onto the missions.”

 _It’s not you, who owes me an apology._ The sentiment lingers in the air, unspoken.

Something uncoils in Luther’s tense frame, making him slump into his seat like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. His brother holds his head in his hands, releasing his vice grip on himself and after a beat of their ragged breathes, reaches out to lay his hand over Ben’s, giving him a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“Tell me, when he wakes up, okay?”

Ben squeezes back. “I will,” he promises, watching Luther draw his hand back and rise from his seat. They share a smile, quick and fleeting, their faces blotchy from tears before his brother turns away, walking towards the door.

Letting out a heavy sigh when it falls shut, Ben gently brushes his thumb over Klaus’ limp knuckles, lowering his head to his brother’s shoulder. His tears end up soaking through the collar, dampening the baby blue fabric.

It’s not the first time he’s cried himself to sleep and it won’t be the last either.

  


* * *

  


_“You want to go to the moon?” Five scoffs, an eyebrow raises up to his forehead. “On your own? That’s stupid. What are you gonna do up there? Collect rocks?”_

_One’s face flushes. “It’s not stupid!” he says, puffing out his chest. “Space is cool. Full of stars and I bet there are aliens out there. Someone needs to look out for the world, so that’s what I’m going to do.”_

_“Aliens?” Two echoes, shaking his head. “What? You mean like tiny green people running around with bug eyes?” he teases, grinning when One scowls._

_“There could be!”_

_“Sure, sure,” Two says, “Whatever you say, Spaceboy.”_

_“He’s not wrong,” Three cuts in from where she’s sprawled out on the floor next to Four, looking up from coating his nails in bright yellow. It’s her favorite color and an eight-year-old needs more practice than her own fingers. “Look at Six. He’s got these…things in his tummy. Who’s to say there can’t be aliens out there?”_

_“I’m not an alien,” Six mumbles, tugging his jacket closer around himself._

_Four reaches over to pat him on the shoulder, careful not to smear nail polish onto their uniforms. “If anyone of us is an alien, I bet it’s Dad.”_

_Two bursts out laughing while Three and One look at him, scandalized. Five hums under his breath, considering the possibility and Seven stifles a giggle behind her head._

_“What?” Four asks, a whine in his voice. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m not crazy. If One can think aliens are like, a real thing, I can think Dad’s secretly an alien.”_

_“Whatever,” One huffs out, crossing his arms. Trying to get Four to let go off his phantasies is harder than to convince him to talk to one of his invisible dead friends. “Where’d you wanna go when we grow up? Seven wants to go to a concert, Three to Hollywood, Six to the beach, Five through time—” he makes a weird face, leaning away when Five attempts to swat him in the back of his head. “—and Two can’t decide yet.”_

_“Nowhere is still better than space,” Two says, mockingly. “You’d be up there all alone!”_

_Four purses his lips, glancing between each of them. “I’ll go with you to the moon,” he says it like a fact, ignoring the betrayed look Two shoots him. “That way you won’t be lonely and the ghosts will leave me alone. I don’t think there are any ghosts up there on the moon.”_

_“How’d you know?” Five asks, a grin curling up his lips as he throws One a side-eyed glance. “Maybe you’ll have to talk to the ghosts of the aliens.”_

_One groans. “Five!”_

_Six watches Four’s face fall and gently nudges him in the side. “It’s okay,” he says. “You can come with me.”_

_Three pipes up, “Or me!”_

_“Hey, why’d you invite him and not me?” Two frowns, glancing between them._

_“Because he’s funny.” At Two’s wounded look, she lets out a heavy sigh. “I guess, you can come too, if you want. There are lots of beaches in Hollywood, y’know. We could all go.”_

_“Really?” Seven sits up straighter, a smile lightening up her face._

_“Why not?” Three shrugs, pulling back to admire her work. “What’s stopping us?”_

_“We can’t drive.”_

_“A map.”_

_“The wish to go,” Five deadpans, causing Seven to knock her knee against his own._

_One’s lips turn downwards as he quietly says, “Dad.” and that’s the end of it._

  


* * *

  


“Here.” Vanya holds out a plate, presenting him with Mom’s cookies. “I thought hospital food must be boring after a few days, so I asked Mom if she could make you some. They’re your favorite,” she tacks on, giving him a small, hopeful smile, waiting for him to take the plate off her hands.

“Oatmeal raisin?” He balances the plate in his lap, gesturing for her to sit down on the bed.

Vanya hurries to kick of her shoes, smoothing out the blankets. She adjusts her skirt, sitting down on the edge near Ben’s feet, twitching like she wants to cross her legs instead of kneeling until her legs gets cramped, but that would be unladylike, something their Dad would scold her for and he’s reminded how uncomfortable his sister is in these skirts she’s forced to wear.

Her nose wrinkles at the favor. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “I would’ve asked Mom to make a few pumpkin-spiced ones, but…” She looks at Klaus and then down to her lap, wringing her hands.

“It’s fine,” Ben assures her, grimacing a second later. “Probably not for me after he finds out I got sweets from you and he didn’t, but it’s not like he can eat them right now.” He gently pokes Klaus in the cheek, tilting his head towards Vanya. “You think he would wake up if we hold a steaming batch of these under his nose?”

She cracks a tiny smile at the joke. “We could try?”

“Tomorrow,” he decides, pulling back to relax against his pillow. “He’s going to be super pissed at having to ease himself off the IV’s again. You know how moody he was that time he broke his jaw and couldn’t eat solid food for weeks.”

“I remember,” she snorts, looking amused. “Five said something about finally having some quiet to work with during lunch and complained about not getting to use it because Dad told him he’s forbidden from working on time-travel during free time and Klaus ended up throwing his smoothie at him.”

Ben grins, Five’s spluttering, drenched-self coming to mind. “Diego looked so proud of his aim. Got him right in the chest, bullseye.”

“Five was so mad,” Vanya chuckles and it would be a happy sound were it not for the painful echo reminding them of their brother’s absence. “That was the first time in years he jumped out of a room because he was embarrassed.”

“Well, can you blame him?” An eyebrow raises onto Ben’s forehead. “It’s hard to argue against Klaus on a good day. Trying to do so when he can only talk with his hands is a nightmare.”

Five hadn’t taken kindly to getting flipped off and then to be forced to talk to a hand when Four refused to look at him for the rest of the day. The silent treatment was forbidden among them. A punishment only Dad could use.

No one liked to be invisible in the eyes of people they loved.

Their laughter fades into comfortable silence after that. The sound of the wind whistling is heard through the tilted window, the curtains moving in the breeze. Lazy rays of the afternoon sun fall into the room and snow is floating down behind the foggy glass, slowly drifting out of Ben’s line of sight.

“Did you see him?”

Vanya’s quiet mumble rips him out of his daydreaming. “Who?” Ben blinks, turning his gaze back onto his sister.

She looks torn for a moment, fidgeting in her spot. “Five,” she whispers, her eyes flickering up to meet his own. “Did you see him on the…on the other side?”

Ben sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, recoiling. Vanya flinches, struggling with her choice, but she doesn’t tell him to forget it, she doesn’t backtrack into her shell and it’s a sign for how desperately she seeks an answer that she doesn’t back down as miserable as it made her to ask such a thing.

“Klaus told me he didn’t see him.” She bites the inside of her cheek, fists tightly clenched in her lap. “But…I wasn’t sure…he could’ve told me to get me off his back, y’know? Or…or to comfort me…give me hope Five might come back home.”

She doesn’t voice the darker doubts she has. The ones they all thought off before. That their brother couldn’t have seen him, couldn’t pull a thought together to summon Five’s ghost with alcohol poisoning his veins and drugs addling his brain.

Whatever little appetite Ben had before vaporized in an instant.

He’s thought the same, fleetingly. It’s not because he didn’t want to assume the worst of his brother that he ended up believing Five not to be dead, but because the alternative, that Five was happy and safe, living his life somewhere else, made the grief of losing him a little better to bear.

Having stood on the other side of that argument…it put things into a different perspective.

“He’s not dead.”

Vanya crumbles into herself, relief flashing across her face and it hurts to see how much of a difference it makes to see who speaks those words. She hadn’t looked nearly as relieved as she does now when it was Klaus that had spoken them.

Ben can’t bring himself to smile. “Or at least, I didn’t see him when I went out to look for him.”

“That’s okay,” she says, a smile lightening up her face. She wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, sniffling. “If he was…if he was dead, Five wouldn’t ignore us.”

That much was true. Ben can’t imagine Five not showing up to tell them off, the moment they died. Always the first one to point out a mistake and berate them for acting reckless and idiotic. For as distant as he came across, Five cared about them in his own way. No matter how much time passed, he probably always would, because they were everything he had.

“He couldn’t. Ignore us, I mean.” Ben explains when Vanya frowns in confusion. Running his fingers along the edge of the plate, he stares down the cookies. “When Klaus calls, you answer. You can’t just hang up. It’s not a phone, we got that wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Vanya asks, putting a tentative hand on his knee.

“Being dead is…dark and cold and lonely. Nothing feels right anymore and you’re drifting in an ocean that drags you down as far as you can go. There’s a light shining in the distance, warm and bright, nearly blinding. It pulls you in, coaxing you closer and out of the numb waters you find yourself swimming in and being near the light gives you hope.”

It made him think he could breath again, clean air filling his lungs. That the hollowness wouldn’t rot him out from the inside, that the light could help him grow back into the skin he shed. Being in its presence felt like standing near the sun, the rays heating up a serious case of frost burn.

“If there’s a light out there, in the dark, there must be a reason I could see it, right? It doesn’t flicker or fade at all. It’s there, simply waiting for you to come closer, drawing you in like a moth to flame.”

Vanya listens, eyes wide, enraptured by his words. “So, it’s true? There’s a light leading to…heaven?”

Ben huffs out a laugh, quiet and pained, shaking his head. “Vanya,” he lowers his voice, seeing her lean in closer. “The light is Klaus.”

She stills, holding her breath. “What?”

“I heard him call for me.” While waiting to fade out, the sound of his name, the hushed, whispering shout of _“Ben! C’mon, Ben!”_ seemed like a miracle. A lifeline thrown to stop him from drowning. “It took me a while to figure out its him.”

He hadn’t figured it out until the same light pulled him towards that place and he found himself standing in that forest, next to his brother and the little girl, both of their paper white skin tones radiating the same glow.

Out of the dark, there was nothing to give away the light except for the pull towards its presence. No wonder the dead flocked to his brother.

“I doubt Five could have resisted his curiosity.” Ben reaches for a cookie, breaking the tension with a bite to his cookie. “It’s kinda the reason he’s currently out of the house doing God knows what.” It crunches under his teeth harder than it should, given he nearly swallows his tongue over his poorly chosen words.

Vanya nods slowly. “No, I guess not,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She eyes him as he coughs a little, hastily looking around. “Do you need a glass of water?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, reaching over to pat her knee. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” She gives him a dubious glance, half risen off the bed. “I can go and get you one. My time’s almost over, but I’m sure Pogo will understand me coming in a few minutes later—”

“You don’t need to.” Ben grabs her wrist. “I’d rather have the few extra minutes of your company if you don’t mind.”

She looks startled by his admission, sinking back down onto the bed. “Sure.” Her face heats up a little. She interlocks their fingers, holding on tight. “Are the cookies good?”

“The best,” he says immediately, watching her fight back a grin. “Want one?”

She accepts his offer, nibbling on her treat. It’s only when the clock reminds her, she needs to get going if she doesn’t want to get extra homework for being late that she brushes off he crumbles on her skirt, pulling him into a quick hug.

“I’ll come back later,” she promises, turning on her heels to walk to the door.

“Vanya,” he calls out. He waits until she faces him, fingers twisted in the sheets, before he asks, “Can this stay between us?”

She looks confused for a moment, blinking owlishly at him. Her eyes dart down to Ben’s hand and her back straightens.

“Of course.” She gives him a reassuring smile and he knows; she won’t tell. Not even if Dad were to ask. This will stay their secret.

He gives her a little wave when she closes the door. Setting down the plate on his bedside table, he doesn’t reach for another cookie.

It’s no use eating them when he can’t taste them.

  


* * *

  


Ironically, it’s on the fourth day that Klaus begins to stir.

There’s no light outside the window when Ben returns from the bathroom. Mom won’t be coming to check on him with a plate of food until the moon is gone and the stars lost their shine, so Ben shuffles back under the cooling blankets and tries to catch up on the sleep he never seems to get enough off.

His body carves rest while his stomach demands action. The Horror are getting restless, twisting and squirming in his belly during most of the day.

He hasn’t told Mom. Or Dad.

Not if it means he won’t be here when his brother wakes up. Going on missions isn’t something he wants to do in the next few days or ever. What’s the point of going if it only ends in bloodshed?

Either he’ll end up killing or he’s going to be killed.

He can’t remember a single mission where nobody had to die. Death doesn’t discriminate. He knows that now, having seen the aftermath. The ghosts wandering around the Academy, lost and seeking, angry for revenge and grieving for their loss. Their victims trailing after them, bloody and torn, mumbling about second chances and child soldiers.

That had been his future. Stuck as an echo to someone who’d rather be deaf. Watching and powerless to help anyone.

Until death had kissed him goodbye and kicked him out the door.

Lost in his thoughts, trying to fall back asleep, it takes him a minute to hear the stuttered, panicked breathing. There’s a sharp series of noise going off in a frequency—the heart monitor roaring to life and he rolls over fast, tangling himself up in his sheets at hearing the uproar.

Suddenly, he’s wide awake, his own heart matching the quick-paced beeping as he leans forward, hand hovering in the air. “Klaus?”

The sheets rustle and through the dark he can make out the faint outline of a body, twitching before he hears the following whimper bounce off the looming white walls.

“What’s wrong?” Ben doesn’t bother to whisper, ripping at the sheets to kneel next to his brother, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are you in pain?”

Klaus flinches and curls away nearly far enough to fall off his bed, trembling and gasping for breath.

Ben’s hand moves from his shoulder to his hair, gently petting the mop of curls. He doesn’t run his fingers through in the fear of tearing at a knot instead using shushing noises to soothe Klaus’ distress.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, his own breath catching in his throat. “You’re safe with me.”

The words sound laughable to his own ears. The Horror doesn’t keep people safe. It’s scary, impulsive and violent. There’s a reason his siblings waited outside whenever he let them loose, keeping the door shut for extra safety measure.

But Klaus leans into his touch, blinking up at him in the dark, wide-eyed and awake. “…Ben?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” The relief melts the tension out of his body and he sinks deeper into the mattress, curling around Klaus’ side. “What’s wrong?”

The monitor hasn’t slowed down yet. The pain killers Mom administered should’ve taken care of any lingering aches.

“The lights…” his brother says, chest moving up and down rapidly. “Turn them on.”

Ben’s halfway out of bed before Klaus finishes speaking. He fumbles for the light switch, slamming his palm against the wall until he hits it. Artificial white blinds the room, and he hurries to dim it a little, hearing the pained groan from the bed.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” The heart monitor steadily turns it down a notch. “Thanks.”

Ben walks back to the bed, seeing Klaus squirm up his pillows like a worm. He pauses, drinking in the sight of his brother awake and bright-eyed, giving him a sluggish wave and a crooked grin.

“Sooo,” he drawls out in a way Luther would call annoying. “What’d I miss?”

Maybe, if their roles were reversed and Ben’s heart wasn’t about to burst out of his chest in joy, he’d make a joke. About how long Klaus had been sleeping and keeping them waiting, worrying over him.

He’s not that type of guy, can’t string together thoughts with sleep weighting down his mind and excitement burning in his veins.

His laugh turns halfway into a sob and Ben ends up bursting into tears.

Klaus’s face falls and his mouth drops open as his panic kicks the beat of the heart monitor back up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all of you who decide to read my stuff (and leave a comment!). Feedback is always a joy to read and I know I'm behind answering comments, but they always make my day and get my motivation for writing back on track. Kudos to all of you <3
> 
> The woes of having too many WIPs are finishing them. I swear I'm trying to get something (at least one-shot) done for an Umbrella Academy whumptober. Hopefully, I get it done in time.


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